User blog comment:Brigadier Barty/Mossflower Country & Beyond/@comment-26024035-20160423200611

Grivu clacks his beak a few times, a sure sign of consternation at all this. "Caw! Then it is Bazir who must die. We would be doing the great lord Wroc a favor by dispatching this ambitious traitor," his voice comes out, barely a rasping whisper.

Meanwhile, Raznare and crew take a breather around their wrecked cart. Little else is done beside eating, hydration and the sharpening of weapons on rocks in preparation for the crows' next attack.

Zinnig sinks a talon into the branch beneath him, gouging into the wooden surface. ¨Indeed. We must kill the vizier, before we are killed ourselves... Cuuurraaaaw, who knows, perhaps we shall even be rewarded for our loyalty, if Wroc Caw ever discovers?¨

Grivu cackles in a very crow-appropriate manner. "Indeed, wing brother. This is a good plan."

" Caraw! How, when, where?"

Zinnig opens and closes his wet eyes slowly. "Soon. I shall tell you when. Bazir must never suspect that we plan his demise."

One of the corsairs, nursing a slashed paw, shook his head in disgust as he sat back in the cart. "We should be leavin' right naow." The weasel, Saldo, uttered mutinously. He pulled his floppy brown hat up off his eyes, casting a glare at his captain, Raznare, as he spoke for all to hear. "Not gettin' ready t' die."